


to give you what you need

by chii



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:37:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chii/pseuds/chii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been running for over 4 years now, and in the last 8 months, York hasn't had any human contact. Delta can't provide it on his own, but in his mind, he does the next best thing-- even if York doesn't agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to give you what you need

They have been running for a total of four years, seven months, sixteen days, eight hours, seven minutes, and thirty-nine seconds. Delta thinks of it all as one large event, because even when they stop, even when York settles on a place and tries to make it like home with paintings and furniture and cooking meals in the kitchen, they've never really stopped running. He doesn't stay more than a few months at a time, does a few odd jobs, skims some money where he needs to get himself enough to survive, and tries not to think about how goddamn pathetic all of this is. 

Delta doesn't think it is-- it's what is necessary, it is what is logical, because they are on the run (and can't stop running, not now, not for a long time) which means that if they want to survive, they will keep doing what they can. It's basic animal instinct, in his mind- do what it takes to make sure you live. The fact that York feels guilt over it is admirable, maybe, that he still worries about these things, but overall unnecessary. 

There are always other things he ought to worry about, in Delta's mind. The fact that it's been over eight months since he's had human contact, for one. Once the transmissions had been revealed to be Texas, he had noted a marked difference in the way York behaved: less careful, more frustrated, resigned. It wasn't healthy to be like this, Delta knew that. Eight months since he's had human contact, and Delta can see the effect it's having. York has always been what the others called a 'people person' and Delta couldn't argue that. Gentle suggestions and, well, cajoling, really, if he wanted to use the right word, had done nothing at all to make York realize that living like this - on the edge of a city and working odd jobs to cover the rent – was not living at all. It was existing. 

York deserved better. 

He starts thinking over plans, something he can do to assist, because York is his partner and if he will not initiate human contact on his own, then there are only so many options he has. He turns to York's memories, his subconscious, taking the logical route, and starts thumbing through things while he sleeps, brushing past memories of old girlfriends, of people he'd loved once upon a time but who were likely gone now, years later. 

He views all the memories with what equates to medical interest-- symptoms of a greater problem, maybe, but not entirely helpful. The memories from back then aren't what he wants, though. Those people are too far, not enough in his mind. He moves further ahead, instead, and examines the feelings that he has for those in Freelancer, as that is the most fresh in his mind, and it does well enough for his purposes. 

Carolina is a poor choice and Delta shuts that down as soon as it pops up. No, the idea isn't to make things worse, it's to make things better and bringing up memories of someone York misses so hard that Delta could swear it's a physical pain would not help in the slightest. 

He thumbs through the rest of them like files in a cabinet, and settles on what he believes will work. York and Washington were always close friends, with banter and rapport the entire time, and York cared about him a great deal. What happened to Washington was regrettable, there is no doubt about that, but this purpose, it works well enough. 

Delta skims over everything associated with the Freelancer, knowing he won't be able to make it perfect, but in this case, good enough is an improvement for York. It takes next to nothing to move up to his brain, to manipulate what he needs to to get everything working. It's always easiest when he's asleep, which is why he does it now, and just a touch here, an adjustment there and he makes it so York doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary. If he cannot take care of his own needs, then Delta can help, at least in this way. 

 

 

 

York wakes up, muddled and confused and above all else, warm, with a solid weight beside him and the scratch of a beard against his bare shoulder. Squinting at the tiny traces of light licking under the curtains, curls an arm around the weight, not musing too hard on it for the time being, just enjoying it, enjoying the warmth and soft breathing and just, the presence of another body there when it's been ages. Breathing deep, York drags his hand down the person's back, and fights off becoming too awake, enjoying this soft spot between the two, where he's not tense. It's all fine and good until he feels the person shift, and the beard scratches over his shoulder- not much, just a little scruff, but it's enough to make him pause. 

Beard? 

( it is nothing to worry about. ) 

He has another moment of concern, before it fades, and he just accepts it. He's not sure whose beard it is or why they have one, but there's an arm curling around his waist, a hand spreading out over his stomach and York yawns into the other person's hair with a sleepy noise, and squeezes them. 

“Mornin',” he murmurs, pulling away only enough not to get their hair into his mouth, feeling them shift next to him and rub cold feet against his own, startling a laugh at the sensation. “Dude, stop. Jesus, you ever hear of socks?” 

York isn't sure whose voice he's expecting, but Wash's isn't it. The man lifts his head for a moment, blinking tiredly at him, and York stops a moment, trying to figure out why this doesn't feel right, why it's weird and vaguely unsettling. 

( it is not. agent washington has been here for quite a few weeks. the two of you have been sleeping in. it is well deserved. )

“It's like, noon, man,” York sighs, and drags a hand up, pushing it through Wash's hair with a tired quirk to his lips, not resisting when Wash leans in and drags something like a kiss over his jaw, before burying his face into his neck a moment later. He's torn between laughter and just shaking his head, and settles for pushing at him until Wash is on his side, giving him a sleepily unimpressed look, and then shoves him onto his back so he can roll over onto him. “Noon. As in, the time people get up.” 

“No one gets up at noon when they were up until six,” Wash croaks, but doesn't do too much protesting, as York crawls fingers up his chest, and traces over bruises that just seem to appear under his fingertips, leaving York smiling quietly. There's a few scattered over his chest, more up over his collarbone and on his neck, and York thumbs over them with quiet approval, breathing in and out slowly. He can't remember the last time he's been in bed with anyone- 

( last night, the night before-- the last few months before this. you found washington and the two of you have been working together for a long time now. )

York lifts a hand and presses it to his head a moment, trying to get rid of that foggy, uneven feeling as Wash squints at him, a little concerned, his hands splaying out over York's hips, thumbing over his belly lightly. “Nah, Dave, I'm good. Headache, you know how it is.” He doesn't dwell on it long, because Wash has that look on his face that he gets when he's mulling something good over and York doesn't do anything to dissuade him from it. “Know what'd fix it, though.” 

He and Wash have worked together for years, and for the ( last few months, York ) before this, slipping easily into this, well, whatever it is, where they share the same bed and touch each other this casually, and York wakes up comfortable, knowing someone's got his back. 

Wash knows him, which is why he snorts, rolling his eyes and squeezing at York's hips as he traces along the line of his boxers, horribly amused. “Uh-huh. Subtle.” He doesn't say anything else, though, and his eyes go just a little darker, his voice that low rumble that makes all sorts of things in York's stomach go tight as he leans in, and steals a kiss, remarkably chaste for the kind of images going through his head right now. He pushes both hands up through Wash's hair and kisses him, slow and sweet and like they've done this a million times.

The kind of kisses he'd give C- ( no, york. ) 

The kind of kisses he's missed giving ( no, york. agent washington has been here months. ) 

The kind of kisses he knows Wash likes, even if he bitches and moans about how they're stupid and boyfriend kisses and they're not boyfriends, they're just partners, and York needs to cut all this sappy shit out because he's ruining their masculinity, thanks. Except York doesn't, he just smiles and drags his hand down Washs's side and traces bruises and scars alike with this kind of ridiculously happy, stupid smile that makes Wash roll his eyes. 

“God, stop it, you look like a girl,” he bitches, and York drags his lips down over his throat, biting lightly just for the way it makes the complaining stop, and Wash's breathing hitch, arching and straining against him like he's suddenly forgotten that he was just bitching a moment ago. 

Sex gets pushed aside for rough-housing when Wash presses his cold feet against York's leg and gets him to nearly yelp, and rough-housing is nearly stopped when York slips off the bed and drags Wash with him, laughing so hard he can't breathe, torn between kissing him stupid and shoving him down on the ground to reiterate the fact that he won, thanks. Pushing him hard, York curls his fingers over Wash's shoulders and grins down at him, half-hard against Wash's belly, and when he leans back, he feels the press of Wash against his boxers. “Say I won,” he orders almost gleefully, and knows Wash won't. The man is too stubborn to ever do so, and York doesn't mind it in the slightest, because they go from this to kissing too fast for him to even think about. 

Wash shoves him to the floor in one smooth move, giving him a smirk for his trouble, and shoves a knee in-between his thighs, pressing it against York's dick to give him something to grind against while his breath stutters in his lungs and York arches up in one smooth line, nails dragging over Wash's back to add to the marks already there. “I won,” Wash says somewhere around York's clavicle, and bites marks down his chest to his nipples, dragging his tongue over them just to watch the way York shudders and to feel the way his hands grope out for something to hold onto, sliding over sweatslick skin and muscles. 

“I, ah, ah, first, no, you didn't, and second, do that thing--” York's breath hisses out of him in one long rush as Wash's free hand drags down his body and pushes at his boxers, the material catching on his dick awkwardly, leaving him squirming. “Goddamnit, Wash, that thing with your mouth, come on--” 

For a moment, it seems like Wash isn't sure what he means. The man glances up, and York shifts under him uncomfortably, but then the moment passes and Wash moves, jerky and uneven until his motions smooth out and York winds his hands in his hair encouragingly. 

Wash has big hands and York fucking loves them, honestly. He reaches down and curls his hand around York's cock, jacking him with smooth, easy movements, and for a second York wonders how the fuck Wash is good at this. 

( you two have been with each other for months. ) 

“God. God, Dave, just-- yeah.” York arches again, pushing his hips up into each and every little flick of Wash's wrist and he grips Wash's hair just shy of too tight, just enough to pull and make Wash look up with his pupils blown wide, watching York like he's the best goddamn thing he's seen that night and York grins, wide and nearly manic as Wash does this thing with his wrist that makes his whole body jolt and precome bead on the tip of his dick. “Open your mouth, Wash. C'mon.” 

Wash bites over his hips, leaving bruises and marks on his way down and opens his mouth wide, letting York hook his fingers there, pushing down against his tongue and groaning when Wash closes down a moment just to suck, a scrape of his teeth here. Swallowing down a noise that's absolutely wrecked, York curls his hand back in Wash's hair and pulls him back, bucking his hips up in a clear motion. “Christ, come on, Wash.” 

Thankfully, he takes the hint. York's not sure how long he could have lasted as far as patience goes, if Wash hadn't, but he doesn't have to because one moment there's Wash's hand jacking him off and the other there's a gust of warmth and then Wash's mouth slides down around him, wet and tight and too perfect to believe. 

( washington has had the time to get to know what you like, york. this is not abnormal. ) 

He makes little noises, muted, soft sounds of encouragement as he pushes Wash's head down and feels him swallow and mother of god if it's not the hottest motherfucking thing he's felt in months, he doesn't know what is. York looks down, dick twitching at the sight of him with his lips all flushed and spread around the thickness of his cock, gray eyes rolled up to watch York's face while he drags up and off with a wet noise, licking his lips and using his hand for the moment while he catches his breath. 

“You can just, god, god, Dave, just do that forever,” he encourages fuzzily, and watches Wash smile, faint and wry as he eases down again, takes York's cock like it's the easiest goddamn thing no matter what the size, moves until his lips meet where his fingers are curled around the base of his cock, and York makes a noise like he's dying in the best way. 

_Never thought Wash'd be good at this,_ he thinks, and winds a hand through Wash's hair, and tries not to think about the sudden flash of red, the fact that he's thought more often about her doing this, about red hair and green eyes and fingers pressing bruises into his hips just to keep him down as she gives him orders. 

Truth be told, he never really thought about Wash like this at all, back then. Not much, anyway, not when he'd had Carolina's back to watch and missions and everything else going on. He couldn't have that anymore, though, not when Carolina was gone and Wash was.

Wash was-- 

( washington has been here for mo--) 

No. Washington was lost years ago, when he'd gotten Epsilon. When he'd gone insane and been locked up and probably died in solitary, if the report was true. Washington wasn't here, because York didn't remember him ever, ever showing up. Glancing down, York pushes at him, shoves him back and kicks at whatever this thing is that isn't Wash, and gapes as his foot goes right through him.

 

 

York wakes up on the floor, tangled in blankets and pillows and gropes out for someone next to him, trying to find Wash, reaching for broad shoulders and finds nothing. He looks around, half-expecting red hair, green eyes, and a wry voice telling him to get back to sleep, that's an order, and doesn't get that either. 

Raking a hand through his hair, York just stares at the dark room, inhaling and smelling both of them-- Carolina's shampoo and Wash's aftershave, and no. No, no no no, he can't do this right now. Scrambling, he kicks the blankets away and tries to stand, finding himself in the same room he went to sleep in, no Wash, no Carolina, only Delta hovering there, quiet.

“What did you- _what did you do_ , Delta?” York gasps, and staggers drunkenly to the shower to push it on and just crawl inside, digging his hands into his hair and just breathing, trying to get his head into some semblance of normal, but he keeps feeling echoes of fingers creeping up his sides, smells Wash's shower gel and aftershave and keeps getting them mixed up, keeps reaching for Carolina and comes up short because she's no more real or alive than Wash is, anymore. 

The water spits cold first, and then hot, and York sits under the spray, letting it hiss around him as he stares at the tiles and Delta's hologram rises on the opposite side, the water disrupting the hologram faintly. “I-- did what was logical. Under current circumstances, physical contact would increase your mood and efficiency by 14%. However, you were unwilling to seek it out and I am unable to provide it, so I did what logical next step there was.” 

The noise York makes echoes in the shower, soft and uneven and ragged, dragging his hands over his face as he sits there and tries to shove it all out of his head, because they're dead, they're dead and gone and he always told Carolina she had to let things go, so he needs to do the same goddamn thing. “I didn't want this,” York rasps finally, watching Delta's hologram dim slightly as the words settle in and Delta processes the fact that York is telling the truth. 

Regret isn't something that York feels from him often, but he feels it now, and can't help but reach a shaky hand out and curl it around the AI, blinking water out of his eyes as he sits there and does his best not to think. “Please don't do that again,” he says finally, voice cracking in the middle of it, and Delta just inclines his head, dimming further. He feels bad about it, but he can't deal with this right now, can't take Delta humming in the back of his mind, can't take his own head this jumbled and wrong and the fact that no matter how guilty and sick to his stomach he feels, he's still fucking hard. Scooting back in the shower, he pushes it off and just sits there a moment, hair dripping into his eyes. “D. Retire for a while, okay?” 

For a moment, he thinks Delta means to fight it but the AI simply nods. “Executing.” 

Then he's gone, and York just stares at the tiles, a little longer, his head dropping back to thunk against the wall, until he can get his head straight and stop thinking about two people who've been dead for far too long.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm going to ruin the seriousness of this fic here because the whole time I was kind of snickering awfully. Delta'd simmed this whole thing out when York was pretty much asleep, but you know that York was totally reacting to it, right, which means that he was rolling around in bed or on the ground like, making out with the air and being all “OH HNGHH WASH BABY MMM.” with nothing there. 
> 
> Just.
> 
> You know.
> 
> Thought you all should live with that mental image. :)
> 
> Also I don't think anyone understands how goddamn much I hate titles. Fuck thiiis.
> 
> LAST let me just say how horrible and funny it is to me to include director-like things in what delta's doing. YES YORK THIS IS ENTIRELY NORMAL. PROCEED.


End file.
